Absolution
by SmutWithPlot
Summary: One-shot: Takes place during Episode 23 *spoilers* ; how Wolfwood reacts to his own actions in killing Zazie, and coming to terms with how others react to him. Wolfwood/Milly pairing, M-rating for sexual situations. Companion piece to "Tension."


**Absolution**

Wolfwood was never one for too much outward expression. So even now as fury boiled within him he was sure his face was bland, his features passive. The only signs of frustration that his companions might notice were in the forced smiles he gave the children. He really did try, but he could see the young ones were troubled by his insincerity and they began to avoid him.

Vash was avoiding him, too. This wasn't to say the man wasn't around; the bristle-headed idiot in red was everywhere, and his usual laughs and grins and stupid jokes were in full force, trying to keep the children in good spirits. But Vash, the _real_ Vash, was noticeably absent. That impassioned man with whom Wolfwood had faced off on the roof of that building was nowhere to be found.

Then again Wolfwood _could_ see him, every now and then, in a glance or a gesture or a few words to the Stryfe woman. Vash would rest one hand at the small of her back when he bent down to speak to her about some problem or another in the house, a leaky pipe perhaps, or a specific child more upset than the others. And his green-eyed gaze would go soft when he looked at her, when he thought no one was watching.

Wolfwood saw these things, and was frustrated that Vash would appear to _her_ and not to _him_. When there was so much left unsaid between them. Their shouting match on the roof had been interrupted (and rightly so) by the big girl, and neither had approached the other since.

They had all come down from the roof and managed to find a larger house within the walls of the abandoned city, with enough rooms to fit all the children comfortably and still give each of the adults the privacy of a separate room. The women were doing their best to keep the young ones calm after the day's events, trying to maintain the same feeling of family and community that their strange party had built for themselves over the last few days. They all still shared the afternoon and evening meals together, the women having pushed together all the tables in the house to make a large enough surface for their usual banquet-sized spread.

Vash cheered up almost everyone with an impromptu food fight at dinner, but when Wolfwood took a large portion of mashed potatoes to the face from a trajectory that could only have led back to where that idiot in red was sitting, he excused himself from the table and retreated to his room, aching for a cigarette and cursing Vash's none-too-subtle passive-aggressive behavior.

Wolfwood slammed one fist against the wall hard enough to bruise his knuckles and paced the floor of his small room, feeling the muscles of his jaw working in his anger. Finally he sat on the bed and pulled off his shoes, which had started to make his feet ache. He hadn't been wearing socks for several days; he had seen plenty of the children here without them so he gave up his own, their need being clearly greater than his. But he was starting to get blisters.

He grunted angrily through gritted teeth. He'd been shot before—more than once—so why were these stupid blisters so damn much more painful than anything else he could remember?

The owners (former owners?) of the house had left what seemed like all their belongings behind, so Wolfwood tried his luck rummaging through the chest of drawers in his room, searching for a clean pair of socks. In the third drawer from the bottom, he found a bottle of bourbon hidden under a lumpy stack of poorly folded dress shirts.

Wolfwood raised his eyebrows, impressed.

_Nice._

He unscrewed the lid of the bottle and took a whiff of the contents, letting out the breath again with a low appreciative grunt at the noticeably high proof of the alcohol. Well, he and Vash had always held some of their most important conversations while in varying stages of drunkenness, so why not use it as a peace offering now?

Outside his room there was a sound like a small oncoming thunderstorm, dozens of little feet pounding the floor as they traveled down the hall and into the children's large bedrooms at the other end of the house. The women must have convinced them all to retire early and get some rest.

Wolfwood knew the two of them would stay there, foregoing sleep, for as long as it took to calm every child and see them all resting soundly. He had looked in on them each night so far and watched them both sitting on the floor, surrounded by small bodies, the small chests rising and falling as the women stroked the children's hair soothingly.

Suddenly an image came to mind, the memory of the big girl glancing up at him once when he appeared in the doorway, smiling softly at him as she cradled a little girl in each of her strong arms, rocking them gently to sleep. He could easily imagine her with her own children, someday; she'd make a fine mother…

Shaking his head angrily, Wolfwood took a drink from the bottle as though the alcohol could burn away such thoughts. He hadn't the right, when every moment she spent near him brought her closer to danger. To death.

Wolfwood stood hurriedly and shoved his feet back into his shoes, still sans socks, and left his room to search the house for Vash.

He was in the kitchen.

Of course he was; Wolfwood couldn't help smirking. The Stryfe woman would certainly have demanded Vash take responsibility for the food fight mess. Now the red sleeves of his jacket were shoved up past the elbow and he was scrubbing some sticky-looking mess off the wall, though he seemed to be having some difficulty. Wolfwood secretly hoped it was mashed potatoes.

He cleared his throat, then held up the bottle of bourbon when Vash turned to see him.

For a terrifying split-second, Wolfwood had the impossible impression that Vash had been replaced by one of Leonof's puppets; with blank face and dead eyes, the creature standing there seemed to be just an empty shell of a man.

But the next moment life filled every ich of him, a new sparkle in his eyes and a wide grin splitting his face.

"Ooooo_ooooooh!_ Hooch!" squealed this sudden new Vash.

Wolfwood was uncharacteristically startled enough into silence, but he recovered himself quickly.

"Bite your tongue, broom-head, this is the good stuff," he warned jokingly, forcing a similarly broad smile. Vash dropped the rag he held, which fell into a bucket sitting nearby and made some of the dirty wash-water slosh over the side onto the floor. He hurried to meet Wolfwood at the nearest small table at the end of their make-shift buffet.

Vash produced two glasses from nowhere and held them out for Wolfwood to fill, which he did, gladly, before taking one for himself. They sat, and Wolfwood put the bottle at the center of the table. He held up his glass in a small salute, and Vash nodded and did the same.

They drank.

But after almost an hour, the bottle of bourbon remained half-full. Each man was still nursing his first drink, and though they hadn't stopped talking since the moment they sat across from each other, nothing had actually been said. They talked about the house, the children, the women, the food, even the weather. The conversation was as hollow as the man Wolfwood had first found in that kitchen. No matter how often or how forcefully Wolfwood tried to steer the conversation toward the issue of the dead child, Vash always managed to somehow dodge Wolfwood's words as easily as he dodged other men's bullets.

When Vash's yawns finally outnumbered the actual words in their strained conversation, he stood and clapped Wolfwood on the back, wishing him a good night before bouncing away, whistling tunelessly.

Wolfwood remained at the table alone for some time, staring into his drink and trying to resist the urge to stand up and scream and throw the glass against the wall just to hear it shatter. God_damn_ the man for making this all so much harder than it needed to be! If Vash wanted to condemn him for killing the child, why not just come out and do it? Why not yell and scream and throw a few punches?

They couldn't just go on like this, refusing to confront the issue when it would just go on eating away at their—partnership? For Vash it was a betrayal of trust, Wolfwood figured, and for him it was just too damn close to final stupidity at the hand of the man's irrational faith in all people.

Faith. _Fuck._ Why was that man _always_ testing his faith? Who was Vash to call his faith into question, anyway?

There was motion in the doorway again and Wolfwood looked up almost hopefully, relieved to break free of his current train of thought, but it was just the Stryfe woman. She glanced in from the hall and looked surprised to see him, though she still gave him a cordial, if hesitant, wave. Then she seemed to notice the state of the kitchen. Wolfwood watched as her eyes were drawn to the mess on the wall that Vash had been trying to clean when he first entered. She grimaced sadly and gave a little sigh through her nose before shaking her head and continuing down the hall.

Finally Wolfwood downed the rest of his drink and retreated, frustrated, to his room. He pulled a cigarette from the battered pack in his pocket and lit it without thinking, collapsing heavily onto his back on the bed's hard mattress. He drew in a deep breath of the blessed nicotine-laced smoke until his lungs burned in his chest. Feeling almost immediately more calm, Wolfwood amused himself briefly by puffing a few smoke rings as he exhaled, watching them evaporate into nothing as they drifted up toward the ceiling.

After a few minutes he could hear quiet movement in the hall and knew Vash was going to his woman for comfort. Wolfwood snorted to himself and took another long drag on the cigarette. She _was_ his woman, even if neither one of them knew it themselves.

He sighed.

Then there was a knock on his door and Wolfwood sat up, startled. Perhaps he was wrong earlier, perhaps this was Vash coming to finally settle things between them, in a more private setting. Wolfwood stood and crossed to the door, not sure what to expect—an argument? A fight?

He was thrown off-balance when it was the big girl standing in the hall before him. The surprise must have been clear on his face, because she immediately withdrew slightly.

"I'm sorry," she said, looking earnestly upset. "Is this—is this a bad time? Should I leave you alone? I didn't mean to bother—"

"It's alright," said Wolfwood. Suddenly remembering her persistent demands regarding his smoking habit around the children, he hurriedly tried to hide his cigarette, dropping it out of sight behind the door and rubbing it out with the toe of his shoe. As if it would make any difference; the biting, acrid smell of smoke still hung in the air. Wolfwood was relieved when she seemed to at least pretend not to notice.

"You didn't eat anything at dinner," the girl said. Wolfwood finally noticed she was holding a plate piled high with food. "I made you some sandwiches." When he didn't say anything, she seemed to get flustered. "They're salmon. And there's an apple, I don't know if you like them but I thought you'd need something more than just sandwiches, I could look for something else in the pantry, if you'd rather—"

"That's fine," he assured her. "Thank you."

There was a lengthy pause, where evidently neither could come up with anything to say to the other. All Wolfwood could think of was the look on the girl's face moments after he had killed the boy—he was afraid the image might be burned into the back of his eyes forever—and it made him feel more ashamed than anything Vash could possibly have shouted at him.

And now she wouldn't look at him at all, and somehow that felt infinitely worse. Finally, after a whole day of keeping his teeth gritted and his hands clenched into fists and breathing slowly though his nose, Wolfwood lost his temper.

"So say something!" he barked. The girl jumped and the sudden movement knocked the apple from the plate she held. It fell with a heavy _thud_ and rolled across the uneven floorboards.

"What would you have me say?" she asked, quietly. Wolfwood couldn't answer her, and he felt like an ass for finally taking his frustrations out on the one person who was least likely to step in and satisfy his need for a fight.

"You did what you thought was right," said the girl, after some time. "No one can ask any more from you. Not even Mr. Vash."

"Do _you_ think I was right?" Wolfwood demanded, without really thinking. He so desperately wanted someone, _anyone,_ to just come out and _say_ it. He knew the answer, he had seen it in all of their eyes in that instant on the rooftop, but none of them would say it to his face.

The girl hesitated, glancing away again for a moment.

"I don't know," she admitted, finally. "I'm glad I wasn't in the position to have to choose." She turned her face up to his again. "I was afraid. I was afraid he would hurt the children, or Ma'am or Mr. Vash. Or you," she finished.

Now she held his gaze and it was he who needed to look away.

Wolfwood bent down to retrieve the apple.

And then he found himself kneeling at her feet, looking up into the gentle lines of her face. She gazed down at him with the same soft eyes that had always strangely pierced him through, from the moment he'd met her. Wolfwood thought at first the expression she wore now was pity, but then he suddenly understood; it was compassion. It always had been. Despite all she had seen of him, even in killing that child, demon or not, she still looked at him with no judgment, no condemnation.

Her sweet breath washed over his face and he suddenly remembered the first time he'd felt her touch, waking from that hellish desert heat-stroke. Sleeping on her shoulder on the bus. Her arm tucked in his as they pretended to be lovers—no, husband and wife—hiding the dancing girl from the caravan. Her caring hands bandaging his wounds after the Seeds ship had fallen from the sky.

Wolfwood could no longer stand to see her expression when he felt he deserved none of her kindness. He let his head fall and stared briefly at her feet before closing his eyes.

After a few moments of silence, he felt the girl rest her palm gently on the crown of his head. At the feather-light touch of her hand Wolfwood felt his burdens truly leave him, for the first time in years. Her small, unbidden benediction freed his heavy heart and he nearly wept at the sudden weight lifted from his chest. This girl could give him peace in a way he couldn't understand, her innocence and compassion somehow untainted by all the cruelties of the world around her.

He leaned forward suddenly and buried his face in her stomach, gripping fistfuls of the back of her shirt and fighting desperately to swallow the tears threatening to burst from him.

The girl started in surprise and Wolfwood felt the muscles of her abdomen tense, but to his relief she didn't push him away. After a hesitant moment, she wrapped one arm around his shoulders and he felt himself begin to shake in her embrace, the sobs muffled in her shirtfront racking the whole of his body.

Her hand moved over his shoulders and into his hair, massaging the muscles of his neck until he calmed again. Wolfwood didn't know how to face her now, nor what to say, but the girl spoke first.

"Please, have something to eat," she implored. When he still didn't move, he felt her bend down and whisper, near his ear, "Please." She ran her hand through his hair again and then—pressed a kiss to his cheek.

Wolfwood glanced up in an instant, his heart suddenly beating a little faster. The girl looked a little embarrassed as he stared at her, but she said nothing. Her eyes widened faintly when he rose to stand at his full height, looking down the mere iches it took to meet her gaze, but she didn't move away when he stepped closer.

Maybe this was too sudden, maybe she had meant the kiss just as some small comfort, maybe he had been misreading her from the moment he met her, maybe he was just imagining she felt the same...

Or maybe this had been a long time coming. Wolfwood reached up to push her long hair from her shoulders, resting one of his broad hands behind her neck, and leaned in enough to press his lips to hers in an almost painfully gentle kiss.

The plate slipped from her hand and sandwiches scattered across the floor but Wolfwood hardly noticed. His first kiss had been testing, asking further permission, and his heartbeat nearly doubled when she leaned forward into him and he felt her hands slide around his back, pulling her body closer to his.

It was hard for Wolfwood not to just wrap his arms around her and pull her tightly against his chest, to kiss her breathless and drag her down to his bed. Lord knew, it had been a long time…

And he had never wanted a woman more. But he knew from the slight tremble through her whole body that she must have had little, if any, experience in love—and he wanted nothing less than to scare her now, or to hurt her.

He pulled the girl inside the room with one arm around her back and pushed the door shut behind her with his other hand. It wouldn't close properly and he had to kick the dropped plate back into the hall before he could lock them inside.

Pressing her back into the door, Wolfwood couldn't stop his hands tracing the curves of her body. He expected at any moment for her to push him away, but she only kissed him more fervently and threaded her long fingers through his hair, holding his mouth more tightly against hers. He put a hand at the small of her back and pulled her flush against him, her body bowing toward his until they could both feel the state of his arousal.

"Mr. Priest," she whispered, taking in a small gasp. Wolfwood growled and took her face in both hands to kiss her fiercely.

"Nicholas," he told her, the single word almost a demand. He needed to hear her call him by name, not by just some title she'd once given a stranger.

"Nicholas," she repeated, breathless. His heart swelled to see her smile, as though he'd given her some gift in the use of his name. He kissed her again.

Sandwiches were crushed under their feet as they crossed the room to his bed, each refusing to relinquish hold of the other. Wolfwood knew his hands were calloused and rough and he was afraid his fingers might actually be cutting deep gouges into her soft flesh while her own hands were spreading fire across his skin with every touch. But she was shivering under his hands, soft keening noises occasionally escaping from her throat to send electric shocks through him, making his desperate need for her even greater.

The girl seemed just as intent to have him, and when he lay her down on his bed and covered her body with his, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and pulled him down. He kissed her soundly as he pressed her back into the mattress, burying one of his hands in her hair and letting out an appreciative, groaning sigh through his nose as her hands moved, albeit tentatively, over his body.

Wolfwood could still feel her shaking slightly under his hands, but the gasping breaths she took as he pressed his lips to the soft skin of her neck urged him on, as did the sudden arch of her body toward his when he bit gently at the skin under her ear. Then her fingers clutched at his arms.

"Wait," she whispered.

He froze.

"Nicholas, I—I don't—I don't—"

He raised his head and felt sick at how scared she looked.

_Wolfwood, you ass, what have you done?_

"Oh, honey," he breathed. "I'm sorry." He shook his head and pushed himself up onto all fours, beginning move away. "We don't have to do this."

But he was drawn off-balance as she wrapped both arms around his neck and pulled him back down. "No, please," she said. "I want this, I just—I don't—I don't know _how…_"

Wolfwood had to stifle a small laugh, knowing it would hardly do much to comfort her. But he was relieved that it wasn't _him_ she was afraid of. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, then to her mouth.

"I can show you," he whispered against her lips.

And he did.

He did all he could to be gentle, but she still cried out in pain at first. She cut the cry short as she gritted her teeth and dug her strong fingers into his shoulders. Her eyes were shut tightly, and she hardly drew breath.

"I'm sorry," Wolfwood whispered, hating to see the pain he was causing her. He kissed her forehead gently, then each temple, tasting the salt of her tears. "I'm sorry, love."

He should never have let this happen. But it was too late now, he was buried deep inside her and his body ached with need even as she trembled beneath him.

When he kissed her mouth she took a surprised breath through her nose and he felt some of the tension in her body immediately lesson. She returned his kiss, tightening her arms around his shoulders still further as though holding on for dear life.

And then he could feel it, the instant the girl took more pleasure than pain from his movement within her. What had been strained breaths suddenly became a sharp gasp and a sigh that was nearly a moan in his ear. Wolfwood almost growled in satisfaction and he became more intent than ever to bring her to completion, to feel her come apart under him, to hear her cry out in pleasure rather than pain.

But she didn't cry out; when they came, her words were almost silent against his skin.

"Nicholas," she whispered. "_Oh, god…_"

The words left her lips like a prayer and Wolfwood thought it must have been a miracle that he hadn't simply died from the sheer pleasure of her body and his name on her lips.

He gathered her in his arms as together they caught their breath again, and he tried not to crush her in an embrace that he hoped could convey everything he felt at that moment. At that moment, and at every moment before, with her. Already not much one for words, Wolfwood knew that they would fail him entirely, now. So he just held her close and hoped she might understand.

Later, Wolfwood stood at the window, blowing the smoke from his cigarette out into the night. He didn't want the smoke to bother the girl, but he didn't want to leave the room either. Didn't want to leave her alone. Didn't want to leave her at all. She was asleep in his bed, her arms starting to show goosebumps as the cool night air moved across her sweat-soaked skin. Her long hair was tangled from their love-making, spread across the threadbare pillow.

_Goddamn it._

He felt a little sick with himself. He'd just taken this poor girl's virtue out of his own selfish need and wounded pride and guilty conscience. She had been willing, certainly, but he had nothing to offer her, no more than he already had, and, indeed, he was lying to her even now about his intentions. Lying to them all.

Wolfwood bit back a growl, running one hand through his hair in frustration, and he felt his brow line wet with sweat. His goals had once been so clear: Chapel had trained him to do this, to bring the Humanoid Typhoon to Knives, who would rid the world of such an evil man. Wolfwood had been so certain his cause was just, helping to destroy the monster that had killed hundreds and destroyed whole cities.

But Vash the Stampede was no monster.

Vash the Stampede was a far better man than Wolfwood had ever been.

_Goddamn it._

In the morning, he was meant to betray the man he'd come to respect. The man he'd come to call friend.

Wolfwood set his jaw and threw down the cigarette, crushing it under his bare heel and relishing the brief burning pain of the ember against his skin.

There would be a betrayal, certainly. Just not as originally planned.

"Nicholas?"

The girl was awake, barely, sitting up on her elbows and rubbing her eyes. Her voice was soft and her query was followed by a broad yawn. Wolfwood crossed the room in three long strides and she reached up for him when he arrived at the edge of the bed. He took her hand and sat down in the space the curve of her body made on the mattress, kissing her palm before holding her fingers laced in his.

She looked up at him and Wolfwood found something new in those expressive eyes, something so easy to recognize and to name that his heart ached to see it. He knew he couldn't hope to show her the same, that his usually passive face was only truly familiar with so much anger that it seemed to permanently line his visage, so instead he bent to kiss her and he poured his heart and soul into it, hoping that it might be enough.

When he drew back to see her face, the girl was smiling softly and still regarded him with the same gaze. She sat up, and when she took his face in her hands and pressed a feather-light kiss to his forehead, he knew she understood. Wolfwood felt another rush of warmth and peace settle over him and, finally, he genuinely smiled. She pulled him back down into bed, and when they made love again it was not out of need or lust and haste, but of honest desire and passion.

Afterward, she drew him down to her, settling his head to rest on her chest. Wolfwood heard the girl's heartbeat slowing under his ear and let out a low, appreciative sigh as she threaded her long fingers through his unkempt hair and began massaging his scalp.

For a long time he just reveled in _being_ there, in her embrace, feeling her fingers moving in his hair or on his skin, inhaling her breath, listening to each beat of her heart, tasting the salt in her sweat when he pressed his lips to her skin.

When her hands had gone still and her breath came in the slow, steady rhythm of deep slumber, Wolfwood finally closed his eyes.

And he prayed; for the first time in a long time, he truly prayed to the Lord. He prayed that he might live through the trials that lay before him, live to see Vash triumph over the Gung-Ho Guns and their leader, live to see such a tormented man find peace, and—perhaps, God willing—find peace for himself.

Above all, he prayed that this night with Milly Thompson would not be his last, that it would be only the first of many. If they both survived, and if he could be forgiven all his sins, he would be hers for as long she would have him. Forever, if he could.

He prayed for absolution.


End file.
